


My House Is Your House

by entanglednow



Series: Hospitality [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Fails At Subtlety, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Frustration, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sex Toys, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Aziraphale makes several heroic attempts to get Crowley into his bathroom. There may or may not be a sex toy in said bathroom. No cats are harmed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Hospitality [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632205
Comments: 143
Kudos: 863
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	My House Is Your House

**Author's Note:**

> This is the end of the Schrodinger's Dildo Trilogy. It's been a lot of fun writing about these two idiots having bathroom sex toy adventures, and pining ridiculously over each other. Thank you to everyone who's left a comment or kudos, or told me that Schrodinger's dildo is going to haunt their dreams. You're all amazing.

When Aziraphale had invited Crowley to join him at the bookshop, with an unexpected amount of enthusiasm, Crowley had been tentatively hoping that the angel had been pining for his company. It's been a few months since the world didn't end and they've been to dinner more times since than in the entire hundred years before. They've spent more evenings together, emptying wineglasses, discussing events both current and ancient, and laughing more than any of those conversations probably deserve, with Crowley sprawled on the sofa and Aziraphale tucked into his most comfortable armchair.

Crowley had told himself that it would be easier now, now that they were no longer being observed, now that they were on their own side, easier to spend time together, easier to make their own choices, easier to admit how much they meant to each other. That there would be opportunities to do so much more than they'd ever allowed themselves before. They were finally free to be together as often as they wanted, to be affectionate without the threat of exposure, to be friends - or to be something more than friends. All Aziraphale had to do was give Crowley a sign that it was something he wanted, or that he was ready for. Aziraphale had once pressed him not to go too fast, which Crowley had finally understood was, in its own way, a suggestion that their relationship might actually have forward momentum, that there would one day be _a destination_. He was content to let Aziraphale decide when they reached it.

Crowley had waited, and he'd hoped, and, naturally, when Aziraphale had offered the invitation this morning, with a nervous, flustered sort of enthusiasm, Crowley had let himself believe that today would lead to...to something.

He certainly hadn't expected to spend most of the morning carting around what feels like a random selection of dusty books. 

It's probably his own fault, because when Aziraphale had wandered past him, sighing irritably around several stacks of old, dust-covered tomes, that clearly had some genuine age to them, and were thus probably important, Crowley had slithered off the sofa and offered to take a few from him. And it was an offer he hadn't regretted, not when Aziraphale had smiled so gratefully at him, made noises that clearly wanted to be a comment on his helpfulness, his _kindness_ , before handing him exactly half the pile. Aziraphale rarely let people put their hands on his more select volumes, unless absolutely necessary, but Crowley had always been exempt from that rule. Two hundred years before he'd ever dared to speak it out loud, Aziraphale had trusted him with his treasures.

Even if, three hours later, Crowley's still not sure what they're actually accomplishing. It mostly seems to involve taking books from one dusty shelf, and then putting them on another, slightly less dusty shelf, somewhere else (which is curious, since Crowley can't remember any of the shelves daring to be quite so dirty before?) It also involves passing things to Aziraphale while he's half-way up a ladder - and trying not to admire any curving part of him that happens to be at eye-level. Crowley assumes that Aziraphale has a very sensible reason for all of it, some underlying system that he's not seeing. The angel rarely does anything without careful thought, even if it's now pushing lunchtime and Crowley's wearing an entire extra layer in dust particles. In fact, there's a strong possibility that there's now more history covering his jacket, jeans and fingers than all of the books in here combined. But Aziraphale has been cheerfully regaling him with the circumstances behind how he'd purchased or acquired each book. Touching every one that Crowley hands to him with an affection that he can't help but feel a mite jealous of. The angel is clearly happy, so Crowley is content to let the dust steadily accumulate. He'll be buried in the stuff if necessary.

"Oh." Aziraphale seems to notice the state of him all at once, shuffles over with a deep frown on his face. "Oh dear, look at you, I've gotten you absolutely filthy, and with you being good enough to help me."

Crowley protests the compliment, instinctively, though more quietly than he'd tended to before the end of the world. Aziraphale doesn't seem inclined to stop, so he's mostly getting used to it - and to the soft, bruised sort of way it makes him feel. He'll eventually develop something in the way of a defence against it...probably.

"Don't worry about it, angel. I've been filthy before." Some people might call it his natural state, in fact. "You do remember the seventh century?"

Aziraphale's face does something complicated and unpleasant that tells Crowley that he does indeed remember the seventh century, and doesn't thank Crowley for reminding him.

"We're not quite in such dire straits yet. Oh, but I've just had the upstairs bathroom done. I found myself rather jealous of yours when I stayed with you during Armageddon. Do you remember? You could - you could clean up in there if you wanted to?" 

Crowley manages to white-knuckle his fingers round the dusty book he's still holding, hopefully without it looking too obvious. Because he remembers very well what happened in all the fuss of Armageddon. He remembers the tense wait at his own flat, remembers the angel's freshly washed hair and softly flushed cheeks. He remembers standing outside his own bathroom, swinging wildly between utter mortification and desperate, unbearable arousal, half convinced he was about to give himself some sort of aneurysm. He'd pictured the angel doing things that still leave him frustratedly grinding into his sheets at night. 

Aziraphale, to this day, has not mentioned a single thing about the whole accidental dildo incident. Which is either a sign of true friendship, or a fiendish attempt to drive him slowly insane. Because Crowley had stumbled into the bathroom straight after Aziraphale had left it, the whole room smelling like clean angel, and his second favourite shampoo. Everything left exactly where it was supposed to be, not a bottle or a tube out of place. The most he'd been able to tell was that Aziraphale had been using miracles in the shower, but for the life of him he couldn't tell what he'd been using them for.

Crowley had been too frazzled to even think about seeing to himself, not with the possibility that - not after what he'd imagined. Not just because it didn't seem appropriate with the angel in his flat, no, mostly because he didn't have any trust in his ability to be quiet, or in his ability to not just fuck himself until his legs gave out. He'd just stood stiffly in the spray, probably doing a fine impression of that cat that's given an unwanted wash, pulling all sorts of faces at the wall, and absolutely not looking at his dildo at all. Which he hadn't been able to make himself get rid of it, or use on himself, since. 

When Crowley had eventually gotten out of the shower - feeling physically clean and mentally filthy - he'd been forced to watch the angel sit at his dark, minimalist breakfast bar, and eat cheesecake in an unnecessarily sexual way, forced to listen to him admit softly, in halting, nervous tones, how much Crowley meant to him. While he was more aroused and in love than he'd ever been in his life. He's astonished he managed the resulting swap and bamboozlement of Heaven at all, quite frankly.

He reminds himself to concentrate, since Aziraphale's dusty smile has gone a bit lop-sided, likely due to Crowley's inability to form words for the last few minutes.

He forces out a noise, which he hopes is pleased, or encouraging, or impressed - possibly all three - about Aziraphale's new bathroom. Which is probably very nice, Crowley's imagining it all done in old-fashioned wood and gleaming white tiles, probably a claw-foot tub, maybe he'd even got himself a shower of his own. He'd spent a while in there after all, probably not a single dildo to be found. Not a one, nope, no unexpected dildos for angel bathrooms. 

"Did you want to - did you want to make use of it?" Aziraphale offers again, with a weirdly hopeful sort of enthusiasm. He seems to be squeezing his books strangely tightly as well, leaving fingermarks in the dust.

Crowley's fairly sure that he does not, in fact, want to make use of Aziraphale's bathroom. Because, honestly, it will just give him another place to picture Aziraphale doing obscene things to himself. He feels like that's the last thing he needs right now.

"Nah, I'm good." Crowley snaps his fingers, and sends every mote of dust on him into the street, leaving him mostly clean, and barely rumpled from his morning of moderately hard work. "See, good as new, don't need to put you out."

"Oh," Aziraphale looks oddly upset. "Really, it would have been no trouble at all."

"I'm sure it's great," Crowley reassures him. "Bathrooms though, they mostly look the same, don't they?" He hands the book he's holding to Aziraphale, who takes it with a sigh, and a nod.

Crowley would have thought no more about it.

Only it becomes something of a theme.

Two nights later, Aziraphale accidentally spills red wine on him, and then offers to let him clean up in the bathroom again. Crowley reminds him that he's an occult being, he can still perform reliable demonic miracles, even after three and a half bottles of wine, and snaps the stain away. The angel remains oddly grumpy for the rest of the night, leaving Crowley confused and irritated about what exactly he'd done to ruin the mood.

Four days after that there's an incident outside the bookshop, where a man painting a sign knocks his can of blue paint from its precarious perch on the ladder next to him. Which leaves Crowley having to miracle himself up another outfit entirely, much to Aziraphale's clear annoyance. Crowley had reassured him that it wasn't done intentionally, not even worth a minor curse for the poor bastard, who was apologetic enough that Crowley let it slide, accidents happen after all.

The next morning, the angel 'accidentally' drops his eclair on Crowley's sleeve, then smears cream across his forearm and left thigh, trying to inefficiently dab it away with a handful of napkins, in the most haphazard and botched clean-up the world has ever seen. Crowley's a bit embarrassed about the mess he lets the angel make, but he's a mite distracted by the way Aziraphale is tilted in close, muttering apologies, the fine fluff of his hair an inch beneath his nose.

A few days after that incident, Crowley's coffee mug defies all known laws of physics and ejects its contents all over his second best jacket, which Crowley's so startled by that the miracle he reacts with almost feels like self-defence, leaving the angel making frustrated noises, and then looking suspiciously guilty.

It's hard not to come to the conclusion that the angel is doing it on purpose. It's become fairly bloody obvious that Aziraphale wants Crowley to use his bathroom, but he's not entirely sure why, and it leaves him paranoid for a week. He spends a full day worrying whether it's an unsubtle hint that he smells unpleasant, though Aziraphale has put up with his slight undertone of brimstone and charred wood for millennia without complaint. And Crowley feels like someone else would have told him if he'd smelled awful in a new and different way, it's not like people feel the need to be nice to him. Maybe he's trying to pay back Crowley's hospitality during Armageddon? Which makes no sense, since Crowley has been the angel's disgruntled guest, on and off, for almost their entire friendship. No, it seems most likely that he just wants Crowley's opinion on whatever he's chosen to do with the room. For some reason it's important to him, but he's obviously unwilling to just come out and ask for it.

So Crowley decides that the next time the angel finds some ludicrous reason to fling dirt on him he'll bow to the inevitable and accept his offer. He'll go upstairs, make the appropriate impressed noises at whatever awful decor and ugly bathroom set the angel has picked out, and, hopefully, that will be the bloody end of it.

Only nothing happens for a few days, and then a few more days, and then an entire week. If anything, Aziraphale is strangely quiet and overly solicitous, in a way that feels almost apologetic, as if he'd suddenly realised that he wasn't as good of an actor as he thought. And if he strained the word 'accident' any harder it would snap in half. Crowley's starting to suspect that the angel has given up entirely on his bizarre scheme to get Crowley upstairs. But he's clearly still upset about it, and Crowley can't have that. 

He takes a detour the next morning, before he visits the shop, heads into the plant room, and finds a moderately sized pot, containing a plant that he hasn't had any reason to yell at for at least a few weeks. He picks it up, considers it from several angles, finds all of them satisfactory. Its leaves pull in a touch at the scrutiny, as if unsure what his intense silence means for it.

"It's your lucky day," he hisses, and carries it out to the Bentley.

Once he reaches the bookshop he holds it against his chest and hurries inside, pushing the door shut behind him with a hip. He carries the plant deeper in, the pot tipping and rustling in his arms, entirely 'accidentally' leaving a streak of dirt straight across his shirt. Much to its obvious horror.

"Aziraphale."

The angel appears from the back, small glasses a breath away from sliding down his forehead and landing on his nose. He smiles when he sees him, abandoning whatever he'd been doing without a backwards glance.

"Got you something," Crowley tells him, and sets the pot down on a bare space that's miraculously appeared, then makes a show of dusting soil off his hands, leaving a few more dark smears in the process. "For your rooms upstairs, since you've been renovating them. This one doesn't mind low light, only needs watering twice a week, and it won't die if you forget a few times, since I know how distracted you can get. Thought you could, you know, put some greenery up there, make it feel lived in." Crowley prods a leaf, which both draws attention to how well it's grown, and provides a sharp reminder that he will be popping in every so often to check for backsliding. 

Aziraphale blinks, expression opening into surprise and pleasure.

"Oh, Crowley, that's so very thoughtful of you, thank you." The angel lifts the pot, admires the plant from what Crowley personally thinks is more angles than it really deserves. "Oh, it's lovely. Aren't you _lovely_ , such a vibrant shade of green."

Crowley pats some more soil off his sleeves, showering it delicately across the floor.

"Damn, I'm getting dirt all over your floor," Crowley says, casually enough to almost be apologetic. "You wouldn't mind if I cleaned up would you?"

Aziraphale, distracted by his new gift makes an absent sort of noise, and then blinks up at him, before he seems to realise what Crowley had asked. He immediately looks flustered, trying to set the plant down behind him, and reach a hand out to gesture Crowley upstairs at the same time.

"No, no of course not. I'm so relieved - I mean happy, I'd be happy to show you to the bathroom. Right this way."

Crowley is cajoled, and nudged, and guided towards the stairs in the back. He's only climbed them a few times, but he knows they lead to a very small flat, that Aziraphale uses mostly for storage. There's a bedroom containing an old Victorian bed, a wardrobe which holds a few changes of clothes, and several bookshelves. There's also another door up there, that Crowley had always assumed led to a tiny bathroom. 

When he opens it, he finds that the bathroom is no longer tiny. It's now a large, open space, with a surprising number of elements taken from his own, only the walls are done in small mosaic tiles that seem to be representing an ocean, shades ranging from stark white to storm-cloud blue. The bath isn't a square, recessed into the floor either, it's a huge, claw-foot tub with gold accents. The shower is almost a negative of his own, bright and shining in a way that looks more open and inviting. Though Crowley is not a huge fan of the number of reflective surfaces. Much as he appreciates his many angles, he doesn't want to see them at all times, while he's trying to enjoy being battered by hot spray.

But inside the shower.

Inside the shower.

_Is a fucking dildo._

Crowley's eyebrows rise, and then abruptly pull down. It's the same model as his own, a stark line of black silicone among the bright tiles. Jutting out at a slight angle, where it's mounted firmly to the wall, at exactly the right height to be put to immediate use, should anyone wish it. A guest dildo, if you will.

He works his jaw for a moment.

There's a possibility that the universe may be mocking him. Or, at the very least, Aziraphale. Aziraphale may be mocking him. It occurs to Crowley that Aziraphale may have engineered this whole thing simply to play a prank on him. In which case, he has to admit, _masterfully fucking done_. The best option here is for him to just ignore it, to wash up, make noises about the lovely bathroom and then leave. To not give the bastard angel the satisfaction of seeing it have any effect on him whatsoever. 

But Aziraphale isn't the only one of them that's capable of being a little shit. Crowley is a bloody demon and he will not let this stand. 

He carefully opens the bathroom door, finds Aziraphale unexpectedly hovering, hands squeezing together, and the angel gives an obvious start at Crowley's sudden appearance.

"Oh, did you - did you need towels?" There's a nervous smile, prepared to be helpful. "I have towels, silly of me, of course. You furnished me with some, when I was at your home."

Crowley hums in a way that he hopes sounds undecided on the subject of towels, he shifts sideways a touch, until he can lean against the door frame. He doesn't miss the way Aziraphale very carefully doesn't watch the long stretch of his body. The way he doesn't pay any attention whatsoever to the way Crowley's shirt rides up and exposes a low line of bare skin, that stretches across his hips. It occurs to him that Aziraphale has been carefully not looking at things for a while now. What's that saying 'absence of evidence is not evidence of absence?'

This suddenly feels like something that has _potential_.

"Y'know, angel, it occurs to me that I got dirt on you as well just now. I mean, look at that." Crowley points out a completely imaginary smear of soil on Aziraphale's cheek, letting his fingers just touch the softness of the angel's skin. "Literally all over you."

"It is? I hadn't noticed." Aziraphale lifts a hand, as if he can find the supposed dirt by touch alone. "I suppose I could - oh, but after you, of course." He waves a hand, as if to encourage Crowley back into the bathroom. But Crowley no longer feels like washing up alone.

"Hey, there's no need for that." He reaches out, catches the crook of Aziraphale's elbow. The creased folds of his shirt are soft and warm under his fingers, and it feels oddly daring and familiar. But Crowley isn't the one who purposefully left a dildo in a shower, with the intention of embarrassing his best friend. "Come on inside and wash it off. It's a great bathroom, tons of space, plenty of room for us both to get clean, eh?"

"What? Er, both of us?" Aziraphale is fussing uncertainly, eyebrows frowning, thumb turning the ring on his smallest finger. But he still lets Crowley tug him forward far enough that he's actually inside the bathroom with him. He stills lets him knee the door shut behind them.

"Plenty of room," Crowley says again, hands lifting with reckless bravery to pluck at Aziraphale's bow tie, tugging one side open, and then the other. It technically counts as undressing, he is definitely committing an act of undressing. But he does it slowly enough that Aziraphale can still stop him at any time. He can say no, he can smack Crowley's fingers away and protest, he can step back and say his name in that slightly shocked tone. He can do any of those things, if he really doesn't want this. "After all, it wouldn't be the first time we've bathed together."

"That was two thousand years ago," Aziraphale reminds him faintly, uncertainty fading in the face of something soft and surprised. As if Crowley is asking a very different question here, a question that he's been holding on to for a long time. Does it count if neither of them acknowledge it, if neither of them are brave enough to? Can they talk around it until it's too big to ignore? "And it was sort of the done thing."

"Still the done thing in a few cultures," Crowley counters. He's nearly reached the bottom of Aziraphale's waistcoat, and the angel has still made no move to stop him. He didn't actually plan this far ahead, truth be told.

"Crowley." It's a question, even if it doesn't sound like one.

"Do you remember when you had that cabin, with the hot springs and you kept asking me to try them. But it was minus fifteen outside, and I was unbearable about it - "

"Crowley," Aziraphale says again, only this time it's firmer. He makes Crowley look at him.

Crowley stops unbuttoning his shirt. "You can leave any time you want, angel," he reminds him. Because he has to know that, he has to know that Crowley has only ever done what Aziraphale allowed him to do. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to."

Aziraphale's hands lift to take hold of Crowley's fingers, where they've gone still on the open sides of his shirt. The angel's hand are warm, and they don't pull his hands away, they just rest there.

"I don't want to leave," he admits, the words strangely slow and breathless, as if he's surprised himself by saying them, by voicing them out loud. "If you are, ah, interested in my company."

Always, Crowley thinks. There is no situation that couldn't be improved by Aziraphale's company. But he was hoping for something a little more explicit, concerning the direction this seems to be taking. There's a difference between being allowed, and being wanted.

"You have a dildo on the wall of your shower," Crowley offers, he hopes that Aziraphale understands that there's definitely a question in that statement.

"Yes," Aziraphale agrees. He doesn't seem to have noticed the question, though there's now a sight flush making its way up his throat. An unexpected wash of pink that Crowley can't help but be encouraged by.

"Which," Crowley decides. "Is either an elaborate joke on my behalf, or a bold and exciting interior design choice."

"Perhaps." Aziraphale stops, seems to be working himself up to something. "Perhaps it's an invitation?"

An invitation? What exactly is that supposed to mean - aside from the obvious, because the obvious is, quite frankly, too lewd to believe. That Aziraphale had been offering to let Crowley - that it had been there so Crowley could - Crowley takes in Aziraphale's oddly wide-eyed expression, and his vaguely embarrassed smile. Sweet fucking Satan, it _had_ been a filthy invitation.

Crowley's hands are moving again, working on the last few buttons, Aziraphale's hands stay wrapped around his own, but he doesn't stop him, they slip gently free when Crowley pushes the shirt back off his shoulders, leaving his lovely upper body bare. He lets it fall to the bathroom floor - and Aziraphale makes no move to retrieve it, he doesn't even tut disapprovingly.

Which means...something.

"Are you showering with me, angel?"

"I do believe I am," Aziraphale confirms, and his hand lifts again to take Crowley's, to close on his fingers and squeeze.

Crowley grunts something surprised at the gesture, at the quickly offered agreement, at Aziraphale's daring, and the fact that they are clearly heading in the same direction. He steps back, wriggles his way out of his own shirt and jeans. Aziraphale seems briefly distracted, possibly by Crowley's complete lack of underwear.

"Come on then, trousers off," Crowley encourages. Because it's a bloody competition now, and he intends to win. He reaches over and starts the spray, somewhere considerably south of the geothermal vent temperature that he personally prefers. Though the steam still starts to curl in the air almost immediately.

Aziraphale is very carefully unclasping his trousers, easing them down with his underwear, exposing every beautiful curve of flesh, and roll of muscle, lightly dusted with snowy hair. Aziraphale, for all his love of layers, wears nudity like it's a natural thing, complete and relaxed and thoroughly distracting. Exactly the way Crowley remembers, the way he'd burned into his memory, though he's far braver than he was in Rome, his past self would never have dared. But he still finds himself instinctively trying not to react to it, to how much he wants, while wondering why he's bothering, because they are so far past pretending that it's not even funny any more. He catches Aziraphale's warm fingers and tugs him into the shower with him, then lifts both hands to his face, tilts it up and kisses him.

Aziraphale makes a desperately relieved sound, strong hands on Crowley's waist, gripping tight, easing their bodies together in a slow press of skin and warmth and shocking nudity, under the rushing fall of water. Crowley bites gently at the angel's mouth, in a way he never thought he'd dare to do, but always wanted, and lust ripples all the way through him, leaving him erect in seconds. He'd be embarrassed about it, if Aziraphale hadn't given a startled, eager moan, and pulled him in closer still.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," Crowley breathes into his mouth, which is wet and inviting and it opens for him so willingly.

Aziraphale guides them back fully into the spray and kisses him back, firm and determined, giving a soft sigh of agreement and relief, that Crowley swallows gratefully. They kiss until he wonders how they ever managed to do anything else, until he's pushing the angel up against the cold wall, kissing him under the water, neither of them bothering to breathe. Their feet nudging and pressing together on the wet tiles in a way that feels strangely, unexpectedly intimate. The stormy blue tiles behind the angel make him look like some ancient Greek god rising from the waves. Crowley knows how blasphemous that thought is, but he finds it strangely appropriate, and unexpectedly arousing - in a way he doesn't want to look at too closely.

Aziraphale's expression is shockingly new, one Crowley has never seen before. Some mixture of curiosity and lust and unbearable fondness. As if he would give Crowley anything he asked for.

"Did you - did you use it?" Crowley asks desperately, because suddenly he has to know, he has to know before it kills him. "When you were at my flat. Did you put it inside yourself?"

Aziraphale exhales a breath against him, soft and rushed, somewhere between an embarrassed laugh and pure arousal. He doesn't even have to ask what Crowley's talking about.

"You were such a good host, so accommodating. How could I not?" 

Crowley hisses, crushes his mouth with his own to stem further laughter.

"I can't believe you fucked yourself in my bathroom, you absolute tease." Crowley is going to think about that more, at some point, but for now there is so much of Aziraphale to touch, so much to slide his wet hands over, to pull close and grip, to draw the most amazing sounds out of.

"I assumed that the offer of your bathroom supplies included - well, included everything in the bathroom," Aziraphale explains.

Crowley can't really say anything to that. Because the idea that he would have denied anything to Aziraphale - the idea that he wouldn't have offered the angel any one of his many and varied sex toys if he'd had the slightest idea that he liked to pleasure himself that way. Completely ignoring the fact that Crowley would have masturbated himself into a coma at the thought of it. He would have gone mad trying to find the right way to ask if Aziraphale would like Crowley to take care of his needs instead. Because he would have done, happily, at any time, in any way that Aziraphale wanted. 

"It was an accident, I didn't mean to leave it in there, I just forgot," Crowley admits, to Aziraphale's rush of surprised laughter. "And all I could think about was you using it on yourself. I was outside the bathroom. I was thinking about all the times I'd done it before. I wanted to watch you. Fuck, angel, you have no idea what you did to me."

Aziraphale inhales, quick and pointed. "Would you do it for me?" he asks quietly, curiously. "Would you let me watch you?" 

Crowley eases back to look at him, trying to work out if Aziraphale means what he thinks he does.

"You want me to -?" He tips his head towards the jut of the dildo, now spotted faintly with water from the shower.

"Not if you don't want to, of course," Aziraphale says. "It's just, I thought about you too, and it was rather, ah, stimulating."

Crowley can't help the noise that comes out of his mouth, but he's incapable of being embarrassed by it, too aroused to care.

"You want me to use it while you watch?" he asks, because he thinks full sentences will be helpful here - and what a bloody sentence that is!

"I do," Aziraphale admits. "Very much."

"You want to see me opening myself up for your pleasure?" Crowley manages to make that sound curious and teasing. To not give away how very willing he is to fuck himself while Aziraphale watches, let the angel squirm for a minute. 

"Only if you want it too," Aziraphale insists, and his pupils are beautifully wide in all that pale blue, fingers twitching on Crowley's skin.

"The thought appeals to you though, doesn't it?" Crowley gestures, in one slow movement, back to the dildo stuck to the wall. "Me stretched open around that, pushing it deep while you watch, begging and shaking while I fuck myself for you."

"Crowley, please." Aziraphale's mouth is soft and half-open, breath pulled in at the _thought_ of it. The fact that Crowley can make him sound like that, at the suggestion of it, of Crowley's pleasure being something Aziraphale needs. It's something Crowley never expected to find so overwhelming.

Crowley leans into him, curls an arm around his waist, feels the way Aziraphale sinks into the affection, all slippery soft lips and damp hair, specks of water on his pale eyelashes. He is devastatingly beautiful.

"Will you touch me while I do it?" he bites out, against the soft curve of Aziraphale cheek.

"Whatever you like," he says, and Crowley knows he means it. "I will touch you any way you want me to."

Crowley hisses at the promise in that, at what it means for the both of them. Aziraphale's hands go tight on his naked waist, pulling him impossibly closer, until their wet skin slides together. Aziraphale's stomach presses soft and warm against his own, water pouring between them. Crowley's dick is hard against the solid curve of Aziraphale's hip - until Aziraphale's hands move Crowley's body, just a touch, which leaves him sliding his erection against the stiff, hot curve of Aziraphale's, leaves him making a soft, gutted noise and looking down to watch it press up between them. It's thick and heavy and impossible to ignore, Crowley finds his fingers moving to touch it, to rub at the flushed head, where it's slightly slick under the fall of water. Aziraphale's breath punches out in little bursts, and the intimacy of it all is deliciously new. It's almost too easy to shift gently against each other, a rubbing slide of sensation that leaves him weak. He could come like this, just like this. Crowley slides his hands over Aziraphale's wide, slippery shoulders, dragging him in to kiss again.

"Will you fuck me afterwards?" Crowley asks, voice rough, suddenly feeling recklessly brave, too desperate to consider exactly what he's asking.

"If you want me to." Aziraphale's reply is more than a touch shaky.

"I want you to," Crowley says immediately, because he can barely think for want of it.

Aziraphale backs him up a step, until the dildo jabs Crowley pointedly in the buttock. 

"Then may I please suggest that you get on with it," Aziraphale says.

Crowley gives a short, moaning laugh, at how polite the angel can be about the most impolite things.

"Fuck, ok, yeah, I'm good with that."

Crowley has always imagined their first time together to be something quiet and meaningful, almost certainly in a bed. After hours of conversations, after admitting what they mean to each other. He'd assumed that it would be an evening of slow kisses, and touching, and all the messy, desperate longing he'd felt for the angel. He'd even thought that maybe there wouldn't be anything in the way of actual sex the first time, just the two of them tangled up together, corporations bare, enjoying the feel of each other. A gentle press of skin in a comfortable bed.

He would never have expected it to happen while he was stripped bare in the angel's bathroom, under Aziraphale's burning gaze, carefully working a mounted dildo into his slippery arse while the angel watches him. But he's almost painfully hard, aroused enough to choke on it, as he holds himself open and impatiently nudges the tip inside, that wide, rounded head stretching him out in a familiar, achy shiver of pleasurable discomfort.

It's exactly the same as his own. _Exactly the same_.

Aziraphale redirects the spray across Crowley's shoulder when he curves over slightly, slowly works it deeper in careful rocks, that unyielding line of silicone stretching him open perfectly. Until he's slowly fucking himself, feeling the drag and pull of it, that makes his cock twitch and his spine flex in pleasure, watching the angel, who's watching him in turn. Crowley's every inhale sounds ragged, mouth open a touch, one hand braced back on the wall, the other dropping to circle his cock, just holding, just feeling it. He doesn't want to come yet, not yet.

"You're just as beautiful as I thought you would be," Aziraphale tells him.

Crowley groans a protest, because he doesn't feel particularly beautiful, he feels filthy and indecent and obscene. But he's also harder than he's ever been in his life, and Aziraphale is watching him like he's something the angel wants, that he wants _desperately_. He seems to have reached the limit of his visual appreciation though, and he's moving to block the water, big hands sliding on Crowley's shoulders and chest, fingertips drifting across his nipples in shivery slides of delicious sensation. Before the angel's touch is moving down across his stomach, one curling at his hip, encouraging Crowley to move faster.

"Hnh, bless it, Aziraphale." Crowley reaches for him, because he can't not.

"You're not the only one who thought about what you'd look like." Aziraphale's fingers brush his cock, and Crowley jerks and pushes into his grip, the dildo almost slipping free of him, before Aziraphale eases him back onto it - and he gives a desperate moan of approval.

"I wondered how you'd pleasure yourself, how rough you'd be, how rough you would want me to be with you - how rough you would be with me."

Crowley shudders, digs his fingers into Aziraphale's skin and gives a long push back, leaves himself fully impaled, the hard line of silicone stretching him fully open.

"As rough as you want, fuck, angel, you have no idea - you could do anything to me, anything you wanted."

Aziraphale's other hand slides down, fingers gently tugging Crowley's buttocks open, so he can see the stretch of his hole around the dildo, Crowley wonders if it looks as obscene as he imagines, if it's flushed a deep pink, pushed open by every movement. Aziraphale can't seem to help the noise that rumbles out of him, something greedy and possessive. Crowley gives a whining breath of complaint that's anything but, fingers gripping at the angel's slippery waist and elbow.

"Aziraphale, please."

Aziraphale tucks in closer still, the hand on his hip urging Crowley to move faster, while he murmurs encouragement into his ear, slipping from soft words of praise to blistering obscenities and back again, and it's far too much to cope with. Crowley's pushing back onto the dildo in quick, hard shoves, the unyielding, rigid line of it sliding deep enough to ache, dragging harshly against his prostate in too-sensitive bursts. And Aziraphale drops his other hand to finally, fucking finally, work Crowley's cock in short, perfect jerks. That's all it takes, just Aziraphale's hand on him, and he's groaning his way through orgasm like he's dying. Aziraphale is close enough to have his stomach splashed with come, and that's almost more indecent than everything that's happened so far. Crowley moans a shocked sort of arousal, the edge of pleasure dragging on and on.

Until he's just deliciously limp against the warm, wet curves of Aziraphale's body, hands gripping his slick skin while he trembles through the aftershocks. He slips free of the wall, empty and aching, then straightens and drags his way up the angel until he can cup his face kiss him in wet, sloppy pushes. He can feel the rigid jut of the angel's cock against him, the heat of it a brand on his skin. The way the angel's hands tighten on him, desperately. He loves him, and he wants him beyond all sense or reason.

"Aziraphale," he says simply. 

"Crowley, can I -"

"Get your fucking dick in me, angel," Crowley growls.

There's a flare of breath and then strong hands are on his waist, twisting him and pushing him against the other wall, then they're dropping to grasp his thighs and lift him, his back sliding up the wall as his legs pull up, to curl and then lock around Aziraphale's waist. The water pours over them both, as Crowley flings an arm up over his head, wraps a hand round part of the shower and demands, fiercely, that it hold him up.

There's a nudge of delicious, warm pressure against his stretched, sensitive hole, and then Aziraphale is pushing past the ring of muscle and sliding all the way inside, thick and hot and fucking perfect, and Crowley gives a loud, grateful groan at being abruptly and completely filled by Aziraphale.

"Fuck." His other hand grips at the angel's wet shoulder, pulling him in while his legs tighten round his waist. "Please, I need you to - would you just -"

Aziraphale grunts something that sounds like agreement, leaning in and kissing him hard enough to bruise. Before he pins Crowley's long back to the wet, slippery chill of the wall and starts to move. Quick, deep snaps of his hips where Crowley has already been stretched open, already liquid and warm and sensitive, aching deliciously.

Yes. This is exactly what Crowley had been desperate for, exactly what he's wanted - what he's wanted for centuries. Aziraphale and nothing else.

Kissing should be impossible like this, but neither of them need to breathe, and both of them are durable enough to not object to the odd bite of sharp teeth or dig of pointed nails, and if a certain ethereal creature happens to be enthusiastic enough to crack a few tiles in the bathroom - well, they can fix that later.

Crowley is enjoying it too much to care, clawing at Aziraphale's back, half-drowning under the spray as he's hiked up the wall with quick, eager thrusts, that are rapidly destroying his ability to think or to speak. It's too soon after his first orgasm, but he's going to come anyway, Aziraphale's cock is shoving in deep and hard, grazing his prostate in a way that's leaving him choking out short, gutted noises again. Desperately trying to hold it, to feel this for as long as possible, breathing the angel's name, slurring out encouragement, and filthy promises, he'll do anything, anything Aziraphale wants, if he lets Crowley have this.

"I love you desperately," Aziraphale punches out, like he can't help it, and Crowley gives a short, choked wail of sound, and comes so hard he blacks out.

-

The room comes back slowly, the rush of the shower first, followed by his own desperate, whining breaths. Aziraphale is pushing Crowley's hair out of his face and kissing him gently. He's still holding him up, but he's no longer inside him. Crowley's arse feels warm and slick, cock soft and sensitive.

"Did I miss you coming in me?" Crowley asks, he should probably be more annoyed about that but his whole body feels warm and weightless, tingling with after-echoes of pleasure.

Aziraphale hums something amused, as if it doesn't matter.

"You were so beautiful in your pleasure, and I was very close, I'm afraid I couldn't help myself."

Crowley rumbles a protesting noise at what sounded too much like an apology, and lets the angel kiss him, lets the water stream down over them both. 

"Did I tell you?" Crowley asks. Because he thinks he lost track of the slurred nonsense that was coming out of his mouth at the end there.

Aziraphale stops kissing him, leans back to look at him.

"Tell me what?"

"That I love you too," Crowley says, he finds it surprisingly easy to say when his body is still pleasantly warm and languid from orgasm. The rushing and tapping of the water hiding the sound of it. The thing that people like him aren't allowed to say.

Aziraphale draws a breath, expression soft and surprised, as if he hadn't expected Crowley to say it at all. He lets Crowley unfold his legs and stand again, lets him lean against the pale, slippery warmth of Aziraphale's body. Which holds him up - will always hold him up.

"Because I do," Crowley lifts wet hands and pulls his face back in, kisses him again.

Aziraphale seems content to be kissed for a while. But eventually Crowley eases back again, raises a dripping eyebrow at him.

"Angel, did you put a dildo in your bathroom to seduce me?" he asks, which sounds like a ridiculous question. But something about this entire situation feels vaguely ridiculous.

Aziraphale makes a considering noise.

"I suppose that I did. But, in my defence, it worked rather well, didn't it? Though I should take it down now. It's not quite as fashionable as I suspected." Aziraphale turns and reaches for the jut of silicone on the wall.

Crowley makes a protesting noise and pulls his arm away, curls it back around his own waist.

"Not just yet, angel. I'm sure we could find a use or two for it."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] My House Is Your House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23916670) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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